


Holding Music

by Pi (Rhea)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-23
Updated: 2011-11-23
Packaged: 2017-10-26 11:35:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/282570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhea/pseuds/Pi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are many reasons Hungary appreciates Austria being a musician. Written for kink bingo prompt "body part fetish other"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Holding Music

Hungary loves to watch Austria play the piano. It is perhaps something she's always done as long as she's lived with him. Long before they were married, before Hungary was old enough, strong enough to be a worthy partner, she would watch him play piano. Peering around the corner of the music room door she would quietly watch, unobtrusive and unseen. When she slept she would dream of Austria playing. Perhaps the dreams were influenced by Austria play late into the night, his music lulling her to sleep.

Austria is a beautiful man. Hungary has grown to know this. It is obvious to look at him, his aristocratic presence, and grace in his every movement. He is in his entirety a musician, and while it is obvious everywhere no more so than when he plays. This, Hungary considers, is perhaps when she fell in love with him. She fell in love with the way his eyes grew distant, as if the music carried him somewhere far away. She still loves this, though she sometimes finds it frustrating when he can be next to her and not see her at all. She fell in love with the curve of his neck, the way his hair fell forward, Mariazell moving to the passion with which he played.

When she was young, but old enough to want, she would sketch the shape against the dark of the ceiling with her finger, finding Austria in her mind and imagining running her fingers through his hair, pulling the flyaway lock until his fingers could only play jangling chords distracted by Hungary and her desire. But of all things she loved his wrists best. Hungary has heard pianists be described by their fingers, long and dexterous and gracefull, or their hands, elegant and possesed of the ability to create wonders. But it is his wrists that tell her his emotion, the darkest desires of his music. When he talks, they curve and dip and spin a story more graceful than any she's ever heard. If there's one thing that's stayed constant it is that lust, that obsession with Austria's wrists. Being married hasn't lessoned it any.

If anything Hungary notices it more. The way she can find Austria's pulse beneath her fingers. Austria often holds her hand and Hungary will slowly slide her fingers down his hand curving to find the place she can feel his life. His wrists hold music just beneath the skin, even when he's not playing. Sometimes Austria conducts for syphonies she can't see. He says it helps him compose. Hungary finds herself a child again, hanging by the door. But the reason is different, caught still by the tension in the wrist of his hand holding the baton. It is a perfect juxtaposition to his free hand, wrist allowing for the graceful swoop of music. Hungary sometimes thinks she can hear the triumphant swell of violins or the sharp crashing of percussion.

Hungary has never been a musician. She doesn't play or sing, but Hungary sometimes thinks there's no one who loves Austria's music more than she does. Even when she can't hear it, the motions of it catch her breath and tighten something deep inside her. Austria catches it only a few days into their marriage, and turns to see Hungary standing by the door. The silence as his hands fall is deafening. Hungary knows what's on her face, that expression of pure desire she's kept close for so long. But they are husband and wife now, and Hungary doesn't have to wait at the door.

She crosses the room to him. Austria carefully places aside his baton. The pages of sheet music lay neglected on the table. Hungary doesn't care that she's intterrupting the course of the worlds music. She catches Austria's wrist delicately between her fingers. Austria's eyes are deep and dark, waiting. Austria is always waiting. Hungary does not care that she always moves first because she loves Austria, her husband. She loves the way he watches her and waits and wouldn't do anything without her opening the door first. Hungary keeps a steady, hot gaze on Austria as she raises his wrist to her mouth. She can feel Austria's fine tremor to her core when she presses a quick kiss across the rounded bone of his wrist. She curls her fingers around it, the tips of her fingers pushing down into the small dip behind the bone. It makes a sinful smile curl across her lips.

Austria's music belongs to her. Now, Hungary never waits at the door. The fire of his music flares around them and Austria's wrists seem about to leave the piano behind. Hungary leans against him, watching avidly. They both know what will happen on the final chord.


End file.
